Two Thirds
by NHPW
Summary: Once upon a time in 2238, two young cadets had an unfortunate confrontation in the Earthforce Academy mess hall.  There are no coincidences.
1. Part I: Point of View

**Disclaimer: **Babylon 5 and all its various characters are property of JMS/ Warner Brothers. Fair use, blah blah blah. Don't sue me. I just bought a house. I have a mortgage now, and stuff.

**Author's Notes:** I know what you're thinking. Sheridan and Sinclair, WTF? Please trust me and keep reading. This story is NOT SLASH (a thousand promises on this; rating is for cursing and violence _only_.) It's an introspective, sort of, on the evolution of Sheridan and Sinclair as people and as two-thirds of The One. _War Without End_ established that the pair had met at least once before, during the Mars Riots; the canon novel _To Dream in the City of Sorrows_ by Kathryn Drennan adds to that, giving a very vague account of the fact that Sheridan used to be kind of a bully and in his last year at Earthforce Academy, he took it fully upon himself to haze freshman cadet Jeffrey Sinclair mercilessly. That account was the inspiration for this piece. Enjoy.

**Two-Thirds**

**Part I: Point of View **_Earthforce Academy, September 2238_

It wasn't that John Sheridan _enjoyed_ hazing the new recruits, exactly. It was expected of him as a senior cadet. It was a rite of passage, for both parties involved. It was tradition. It was—

"Hey, watch it, Plebe!"

OK, fine. It was fun.

Sheridan had made underclassman Jeffrey Sinclair his special project exactly four days, 17 hours and – he checked his watch – 23 minutes ago, after an unfortunate incident in the mess hall had left John's meticulously clean uniform covered in military-standard gray slop. Since then, the little worm had done an admittedly superb job of avoiding him. Now, at the close of morning Reveille, in a jostling herd of cadets trying to get to breakfast, an elbow caught Sheridan in the ribs and he smiled like the Christmas Grinch as he noted who the elbow belonged to. He reached out and clasped Sinclair's shoulder, shaking his head. "I thought I told you to _watch it_," he said, holding the younger man fast in his futile attempt to flee. Sheridan shook his head. "Uh-uh. See, you were almost in my way. Again!" There was laughter, and both cadets looked up, each hoping for allies.

Sheridan won. Two other senior cadets, one male and one female, stood by watching with bemused looks on their faces. They both stood with their feet slightly apart, arms crossed over their chests – not jumping in to help, but clearly there to back up any action Sheridan should choose to take. _Good_, he thought. _I like an audience_.

Observing that his prey had stopped struggling, Sheridan released Sinclair's arm and circled him slowly, eyes gleaming.

"I don't want any trouble."

It unnerved Sheridan to no end how level and calm the younger cadet's tone was. "That's funny. Plebes who don't want any trouble usually don't go looking for it."

"I wasn't—"

"_I wasn't_," Sheridan mocked. He continued circling Sinclair like a vulture, noting with amusement that a hint of fear had crept into the other man's features. It was barely noticeable, but Sheridan saw it. He noticed a lot of the little things other people missed. It was what would make him a good soldier, and a good commanding officer as well. Someday. Today, he'd settle for using it to intimidate Sinclair. It was good practice. "If you didn't want trouble, _plebe_, you'd do a better job of not being in my way. What are you doing here, anyway? You don't have the stomach for combat, or the body. I heard you were a Mennonite. Aren't you supposed to be non-violent? A conscientious objector or some crap?"

"I was _taught_ by _Jesuits_," Sinclair responded, his voice hitching slightly. Sheridan smirked. Yes, he was enjoying this quite a bit. It was going to be a good last year. "I'm here to learn to be a pilot like my father, and his father before him."

Sheridan raised his eyebrows. "Is that so?" He stopped his circling, gave Sinclair a once-over. Then, with no warning, he gave Sinclair a hefty shove, pushing him to the ground. Sinclair sputtered, drawing laughter from their observers. "_Never_ correct me. Understood?"

Sinclair gulped, swallowed – the wind had been knocked out of him just a little by the surprise of the fall. After a moment he glared upward as Sheridan towered over him. At his full height, the senior stood more than six feet, and from this position he seemed taller still.

Sheridan gave the young cadet adequate time to respond… probably. When it became clear Sinclair would not do so, Sheridan crouched, brought his face within an inch of Sinclair's and spat quietly, "I said is. That. Understood?"

With a resigned nod, Sinclair huffed, "Yes," and began pushing himself to his feet.

But Sheridan wasn't satisfied. He stood, pulling Sinclair up along with him by way of a rough grip on one bicep. His tone was ominous when he spoke again, still too close to Sinclair's face for comfort. In fact, the freshman cadet noted with slight amusement that the other man had not brushed his teeth this morning and still had a hint of whiskey on his breath. "Yes what?"

"Yes, sir." It was a barely audible whisper, but it was a start. Sheridan nodded, stepped back from Sinclair and after another once-over, began to walk away. "See you soon, Flyboy," he called over his shoulder as his companions flanked him. He threw his arm around the woman and sighed contentedly.

"John," she admonished, "Don't you think you're being just a little rough on him?"

"Oh, Elizabeth, don't be so uptight." He pressed a hard smack of a kiss to her cheek, and she turned her head toward him to get a proper one on the lips. "_You_ were hazed. _I_ was hazed. It's part of being a freshman cadet. If I don't make him my bitch, someone else will, so he might as well get used to it. Besides, if you ask me, those of us who survive hazing come out stronger for it. I'd say I'm doing Jeffrey Sinclair a favor. Someday I bet he'll even thank me for it." He was grinning ear to ear as he pulled Cadet Lochley closer to him. Their male companion gave the couple a look and shook his head.

"Don't hold your breath."

**

* * *

**

Earthforce Cadet Jeffrey Sinclair was counting down the days until graduation. He was obsessed with it to the point of programming his wake-up alarm to give him the countdown at the start of each day. _One day closer to freedom_, he'd think as he rolled out of his bunk. But it wasn't his own graduation he cared so much about. Oh no. It was the presentation of the class of '39 that he'd celebrate with glee and jubilation – the day John Sheridan was presented with his commission and headed out into the wild blue to begin his military career – the day Jeff got his freedom.

But, as the overly chipper voice alarm reminded him this morning, it was only, "0530. This is your requested wake-up time. Today is Thursday, 17 September, 2238. Graduation is in 239 days."

Jeff sighed, clenched his eyes shut, wished for just five more minutes… but he knew that if he didn't get down to the shower room quickly, he'd miss his customary shower time and have to stand in line. And if he had to stand in line, he'd be late getting outside, which meant he'd chance running into the upperclassmen, which meant he'd chance running into… _him_. The sudden mental image of Sheridan's sneer from yesterday's incident following Reveille flashed across Jeff's mind and provided all the motivation he needed. Quickly he raised himself out of bed, stripped, wrapped a towel around his waist, grabbed his shower caddy and hurried down the hall toward the shower room.

The Academy dorms were all laid out in the same fashion – four stories, 24 rooms on each side of a long, colorless hallway, split at the halfway point by a latrine and shower facilities on one side of the hall and a meeting room on the other. Jeff lived on the third floor, room 310, Building 9 – not that it mattered. He only needed that information so that he remembered where to go and sleep at night. It mattered more that he knew John Sheridan lived in Building 10 – right next door. This had made avoiding him particularly tricky, but it could be done on most days.

Today, it turned out, was not such a day.

Jeff took a short shower as always, scrubbing away where it was most important and while doing so, mentally running over his schedule for the day. Assembly at the flag, then to the mess – and this time, he'd be sure to keep company among his freshman peers as he did not want a repeat of yesterday – followed by drills and a five-mile run. Then lunch, then some classroom instruction, then –

"Hey Pencil Dick. Hurry the fuck up."

The voice interrupted Jeff's train of thought. It was coming from just outside his shower stall. _Can't be_, he thought. _He doesn't live in my building. What the hell_—

"I said hurry _the fuck_ up," came Sheridan's baritone again. "I know you're in there picturing me naked, and while I'm flattered and all, I'm not like that. I like _girls_!" The acoustics in the tiled room were excellent. Sheridan was talking quite loudly to begin with, and the way his voice echoed off the walls, Jeff was sure the whole floor could hear him, if not the whole building. "And if I _were_ to give a plebe the honor of sucking my cock, it would be a female plebe. A hot one. Probably one who'd let my girlfriend watch. Sorry man, Elizabeth isn't all up on the guy-on-guy action." Jeff could feel his whole body was blushing. He hurriedly washed off the rest of the soap, turned off the spray of the shower and reached one hand out in the customary gesture to find one's towel.

The hook was empty.

And then the curtain to his shower stall was jerked open, a whoosh of cold air hitting his buttocks. He barely had time to worry about that as a chorus of laughter bubbled up from the line of men waiting for an open shower stall. He could feel Sheridan's presence just millimeters behind him now and wasn't surprised when the whisper came, a hiss against his ear. "Your dorm is co-ed, plebe. Elizabeth lives one floor above you. _She likes it on top_. That's not something you'll ever know anything about, though." Quiet laughter hot against Jeff's ear now. He feebly used his hands to cover himself. "You should be better about remembering to bring your towel."

"I didn't –"

"Yeah, you did. But lucky for you, I've got an extra one." Jeff glanced over his shoulder just enough to notice that Sheridan had one white standard-issue towel around his waist and a second wrapped casually around his shoulders. _Unbelievable._ "If you ask me for it _real_ nice, I might just be willing to share."

Jeff rolled his eyes. "C'mon, Sheridan, knock it off. Haven't you had enough?"

There was a pause for consideration. Then, "Not hardly."

"Give me my towel."

"Mmmmmmm… no." The smile was evident in Sheridan's tone. The son of a bitch was enjoying this way too much. "For starters, it's _my_ towel. Furthermore… say 'please' and maybe I'll consider it."

Another eye roll. _Just get it over with, Jeff_. "_Please_ give me a towel."

"Sir."

"Sir," Sinclair repeated obediently.

"Now the whole thing," Sheridan prompted, as if leading a child. He removed the towel from his shoulders and twisted it idly in his hands.

"Please give me a towel… sir," Sinclair mumbled.

He was rewarded with a painful towel snap across his ass, followed by hoots of laughter from the doorway. "Get used to that word." The verbal assault followed the physical sting of pain. "You're going to be one level below me, taking my orders and kissing my ass your whole career. In case you were wondering, that starts _now_. Now get dressed." Sheridan flung the towel over the side of the shower stall for Sinclair to grab. The younger man did so and hurried out of the shower room, avoiding all the eyes that followed him. _Two hundred thirty-nine more days_, he thought. _Hell, _I'll_ throw his graduation party._


	2. Part II: Reconciled in Arms

See Part 1 for Disclaimer and Notes.

**Part II: Reconciled in Arms **_Mars,_ _March 2251_

The failing street light at one end of the ominous-looking alley and a fire burning at the other provided just enough light for Lt. Commander Jeffrey Sinclair to make out four burly rebels – at least two of whom were armed with what looked like baseball bats – surrounding a lone Earthforce officer. They had the man in blue backed into a corner between a brick wall and a dumpster, and although he was holding up his hands in surrender and talking a good game, trying to reason with his soon-to-be assailants, it was clear to Sinclair that this unfortunate soul was about 10 seconds away from getting his ass handed to him.

With a shake of his head, Sinclair drew his PPG and stepped out of the shadows. "Freeze! Drop your weapons!"

"This doesn't concern you. Get out of here while you still can," came the response from the largest thug, presumably the leader. He moved his right hand slightly – a twitch, but it allowed a sliver of light to catch against the metal alloy of the knife blade concealed in his palm.

Sinclair took a few steps closer, heated up his PPG. "Right now the charge is attempted assault of an Earthforce officer. You want to make it assault with a deadly weapon? How about attempted murder?" Sinclair challenged. "Drop. The weapons. _Now_."

The thugs backed down a bit, breaking the tight circle they'd formed around their prey and allowing the other officer to step out of the shadows and reveal himself.

Sinclair's eyes went wide with recognition – 12 years had passed, but he'd recognize the face of his Academy nemesis anywhere – and just for a moment, there was an admittedly large part of him that wanted to back away, find another way back to his base, and leave John Sheridan at the mercy of his attackers.

The ringleader seemed to pick up on the fact that Sinclair's mental state had faltered, and he took the opportunity to lunge forward, his knife blade grazing Sheridan's left side. Sinclair's response was automatic – he fired a single round from his PPG a split second after Sheridan's yelp of pain echoed through the alley. He missed, and all four thugs took off, disappearing into the streets and the darkness faster than he could get off another shot. Sighing in defeat, he took a hesitant step toward Sheridan, noting with some satisfaction the surprise and recognition that flitted across the other man's features. "You all right?" He asked.

"Uh-huh," Sheridan nodded, clearly dumbfounded.

Sinclair nodded too, then pushed a button to activate his link. "This is Lt. Commander Jeffrey Sinclair reporting in from Dome 1, Quadrant 4, subsection Q, near the abandoned Orion Research Facility. Four armed suspects fled the scene after attempted—"Now Jeff's gaze landed on Sheridan, who was inspecting what was definitely an _actual_ flesh wound on his right side. "Correction. After assault on an Earthforce Officer. Back up requested, Priority 1."

"Understood," came the reply. "Do you need medical assistance?"

"I'm unharmed. My companion has a flesh wound—"

"I'm all right," Sheridan protested now, loud enough to be heard across Sinclair's open link.

"Commander Sheridan, is that you?"

"Affirmative, General."

"What happened?"

Sheridan took another moment to inspect the wound, which didn't appear to be deep but was definitely bleeding. "Power's out all over the dome. Transport tubes are down. Figured I'd try to walk back to base. A few of our Martian friends thought differently, I guess." He groaned slightly, wincing in pain.

Sinclair resisted the urge to roll his eyes at Sheridan's pride. _Some things never change._ "He needs a doctor," he said over the link.

"No, I told you, I'm fine—"

The general's voice settled the argument as it cut Sheridan off. "If you're urgent care, Sheridan, no hero crap. Get yourself to the nearest medical facility. With the power out and the tube system down, it'll be faster and safer for the two of you to stick together and walk to the hospital in Subsection V."

"And if I'm not—ow—urgent care?"

Now Sinclair dropped the pretense and _did_ roll his eyes, and he made it big enough to be sure Sheridan noticed it. He could almost hear the general doing the same. "Then take Lt. Commander Sinclair with you, find somewhere safe and hunker down until dawn. We'll come for you at first light, and you sure as hell better be alive when I get there. I've got a few things I want to say to both of you, and they all start with what the f—"

"Thank you, General," Sheridan interrupted, and in a fleeting moment of solidarity, Sinclair cut the link. Then he glanced at his companion, who was still bent over slightly, clutching his side.

"It's a hike to the hospital. Let's get going before you pass out."

"I'm _fine_," Sheridan insisted again. He pulled a bloody right hand away from the wound and inspected first his hand, then his side. "It's a flesh wound, that's all. I've had worse." He made eye contact with Sinclair for the first time. "Come on. I know a bar not far from here; we should be safe there until morning, and they keep their bathrooms clean enough I should be able to clean this fucker out without getting infected. Besides, I could use a drink."

Sinclair gave in, accepting that Sheridan seemed sincere – and really, he couldn't leave an injured fellow soldier to wander the dark streets by himself. Nor, Sinclair reasoned, was _he_ safe, himself, in the dark for long – injured or not. "All right," he responded with a skeptical nod. "Let's go."

**

* * *

**

Sheridan had downed one glass of whiskey and was halfway through another before he spoke. "Thank you."

Sinclair, in turn, glanced at his unlikely companion, not entirely sure the commander was speaking to him. By his posture, it seemed far more likely that Sheridan was addressing his drink, but Jeff answered anyway. "You're welcome."

The pair had made their way to the bar without incident, and after confirming that Sheridan's wound was not life-threatening, Sinclair had helped him clean and dress it using supplies from a crude first aid kit provided by the bartender. After that, they'd sunk down side by side on a pair of barstools and Sheridan had ordered a first round of drinks, followed in record time by a second for himself.

"Still can't hold your liquor, huh?" The commander observed now – a reflex, and he regretted it as soon as the words came out. He chanced a sidelong look at Sinclair, who now had taken an extreme interest in his own glass of liquid courage. He lifted the glass of whiskey to his lips – _fucking Sheridan. I don't even like whiskey_ – and took a long swig. "I'm um." Sheridan shook his head, polished off his second drink and pushed the empty glass at the bartender, nodding at the inquiry of another. "I'm. You know." Another glance at his drink, a shrug, and when he looked up at Sinclair again, the other man was now watching him expectantly. "I'm sorry." For all of his effort to avoid eye contact, Sheridan now locked his companion's gaze and held it. He really, truly wanted to be sincere – but he wasn't used to having to apologize for things. He stunk at it.

Sinclair didn't respond at first. He was relishing the apology, rolling it through his mind with vindication. He wanted Sheridan to squirm, just a little – mostly for what he'd done to him at the Academy, but also because he was reasonably certain the commander never _had_ quite squirmed like this, and he figured it was about damn time. _How much should I enjoy this?_ To Jeff's great surprise, it didn't taste nearly as sweet as he'd always dreamed it would. "Thank you," he said finally.

Sheridan returned his attention to his drink. It was easier to talk to whiskey. Whiskey never judged him and never expected anything from him. He took a swig, closed his eyes at the slow burn of the brown liquid down his throat. "I don't blame you for hating me."

"I don't hate you."

"Oh?"

"I did hate you. I hated you for a long time."

Sheridan grunted, nodded. "What happened to change your mind?"

"The war came." There was a long silence, both men momentarily distracted by their memories. "After that, hating anyone who wore the same uniform was a luxury I couldn't afford." Sinclair's mind flashed to the Line. He polished off his drink to dull the pain.

"I guess in that respect, in some fucked up backwards way I owe the Minbari a thank you for you saving my ass." Sheridan sighed. When he spoke again, his voice was smooth, gradually becoming less halting and awkward. "I heard about the Line."

"And I heard about the Black Star." A pause. "Well done." In the silence that followed, Sinclair noted that his fellow officer appeared almost uncomfortable with the compliment, as though he felt he didn't deserve it.

"It was nothing special. I wasn't trying to be a hero." Was it the alcohol, or had Sheridan just confided in his Academy bitch? He decided to test the waters. "I just didn't want to die, that's all."

"Me, too." The confession was so quiet that Sheridan almost didn't hear it. In fact, had the bar been more occupied, he probably wouldn't have. As it was, it was the two of them, the bartender and a few others at a table in the corner, and someone had forgotten to put more credits in the jukebox. Another long silence, but it was cautiously comfortable. Then Sinclair looked down at his own uniform and across to Sheridan's, eyes bouncing from his solid silver command rank to Sheridan's – half silver, half gold. "Guess you were right," he said absently, reaching out to accept a fresh drink from the bartender. His eyes met Sheridan's again over the rim of his glass as he tipped it back, and what he saw startled him. The commander looked genuinely hurt.

What happened next shocked him more, as Sheridan locked eyes with Sinclair and reached up to his own chest, removing his command rank. Without a word, he put it in his pocket.

Sinclair allowed himself a moment of slack-jawed silence before he did the same.

John nodded then. "Truce?" He held out his hand.

"Truce," Jeff agreed, shaking the outstretched hand. He raised his eyebrows in what he hoped would be interpreted as a playful gesture to accompany the light tone of his next words, "But don't think for a second I'll pass up an opportunity to get you back." He laughed, and was glad to hear Sheridan join in after he'd taken a moment to process the comment correctly.

"So." John's tone turned conversational, and he felt the weight lift from his shoulders. He didn't realize he'd been carrying that guilt around since the Academy, and he was glad to have it gone. "Married?"

Jeff shook his head. "There's someone, but we're…" He waved his hand to make a wishy-washy motion. "She's special, but we just can't seem to get it together. What about you? Last I heard, you married that girl of yours right out of the Academy. She uh…" The alcohol was blurring Jeff's vision – and his judgment – slightly. "She still like it on top?"

"You'd have to ask somebody else."

"Oh. Sorry."

Sheridan wasn't about to let a lack of information ruin his chance to mend this bridge – or kill his buzz. He shook his head with a little smile and a casual swig of his drink. "'Sokay. I'm happy with someone else now; a civilian." That reminded him, and he absently checked his watch. "I was supposed to call tonight."

"What's her name?" That's what he meant to ask, anyway. It sounded about right, probably with a few less consonants.

A happy sigh now – in fact, John breathed her name. "Anna."

The breathless tone, for reasons unknown, made Sinclair giggle, just a little, from far back in his throat.

Sheridan pointed a finger at him accusingly. "You're drunk."

"Not—" Jeff paused to belch. Then he covered his mouth and shook his head, pointing right back at Sheridan, who still held his finger extended. "Not in uniform."

John leaned in as close as he could, and for the most fleeting of moments, Jeff thought he was about to get a wet willy or one of a hundred other flashback torture methods. Instead, Sheridan hissed in his ear, "I won't tell. 'Cuz… cuz I think I'm drunk too. Just a little." He held his left thumb and pointer finger a few millimeters apart as a visual aid. Bartender?" The potbellied man behind the counter wiped his hands on a rag and looked in their general direction at Sheridan's drunken bellow. "Bartender, how much whiskey—" now Sheridan had to pause to burp. It made Jeff giggle again. "Is in whiskey?"

Jeff realized at that moment that while he did, in fact, have a very nice buzz going – he reflected absently that Sheridan was right, he'd always been a lightweight – the commander (with or without his command rank) needed to be cut off, or they'd both find themselves before a court martial board for insubordination in the morning. "You know," he told John now, clapping a hand on his comrade's shoulder when he tried to get up from his barstool. "I threw you one hella graduation party."

John frowned. "W'z I drunk then too? I dun remember that."

"You weren't invited." Sinclair nodded at the knowing smile that split Sheridan's face. "But _I_ was drunk. I was _good_ and drunk. I was…" Now Sinclair paused thoughtfully. "If I'da known you could be fun, I'da invited you, you know."

"I know."

"When morning comes, we're gonna be in a lot of trouble."

"Mmmm? Nah. We'll just tell 'em… we'll tell 'em… we'll blame the Marzies."

"I don't wanna do that. 'Sarfault. Needed to be done, though. We'll just…"

"We could play the 'war hero' card." Sheridan sounded profoundly sober in this moment of enlightenment, as though it were a practiced method he'd used before. He probably had.

"Or we could just tell the truth."

"Truth is… truth is… what you make it," Sheridan announced, slamming a fist down on the bar to make his point. "There you go. Dime-store psychoanalysis. Or something."

"Or something indeed." They had half a drink left between them. John didn't need any more; Jeff threw it back in one long gulp. "OK, lemme just… lemme ask you just one thing."

"Anything."

"Why'd you do it?"

There was a long silence. And then almost as soberly, with all of the vowels and consonants and words in the right order, John responded in a hushed tone. "Because I had to. Because it was expected. Because you were so self-assured and confident and it was easier to try to bring you down a peg than to admit there were things about myself that I still wasn't sure about."

"That's sort of what I thought." John frowned at the other man's admission, looking for an explanation. "You never performed without an audience," Jeff continued. "I wasn't dumb, you know."

"I know."

"Thanks for being honest."

"Thanks for being drunk."

"My pleasure."

They stumbled toward a booth in the back, where the bartender supplied them with a couple of glasses of water. "Sober up, space cowboys. Dawn's an hour away."


	3. Part III: Trust and Confidence

See Part 1 for Disclaimer and Notes.

**III.** **Trust and Confidence** _Babylon 5 Space, August 2260_

There hadn't been time for reminiscing or even pleasantries, really; it wasn't that kind of game anymore, and both men knew it. But now they were on board the White Star, headed to Sector 14 – a three-hour trip, give or take, even in a ship this fast, and there was very little else to do. Besides, Ambassador Sinclair had a few things he wanted Sheridan to know before he told anyone else, and he knew Sheridan well enough to know that after they'd sent Garibaldi "back to the barn," the captain would be looking for answers and wouldn't rest until he got them. That's just the kind of man Sheridan was; it was part of what made him very good at his job.

Sure enough, not 20 minutes later, Sheridan gave a discrete nod of his head in Sinclair's direction and then, with a gentle touch to Delenn's shoulder – the ambassador hadn't missed the subtle touches and glances those two had been exchanging ever since he'd walked into the War Room – headed off the command deck. Jeff waited a minute or so before following suit.

He didn't have to look too hard before he found Sheridan in the bunk room, which was empty except for the two of them – this was a short enough trip that no one needed a nap; a dinner-but-no-movie flight.

"So."

"So," the captain responded casually. He paused, feeling uncomfortable for a moment; then, in a familiar gesture, he removed his command rank and put it in his pocket. Sinclair smiled, shrugged out of his Entil'zha robe. The atmosphere in the room immediately relaxed. "About Garibaldi."

There was no need to beat around the bush. They both knew something was up, and there wasn't a lot of time. "Michael's been through the rift before without a time stabilizer. If he went again, he wouldn't make it back. He'd age – slowly at first, then faster, and before he returned to Babylon 5, he'd die of old age. I can't let that happen."

Sheridan took a moment to process this. Sinclair knew the captain wasn't stupid; he was, in fact, very smart, and it wouldn't take him long to figure it all out. "So you're going to die."

A pause. "Not exactly."

"You've been taking grammar lessons from a Vorlon."

"In a sense. I've been on Minbar for almost two years. It changes a man."

Sheridan grunted. It made Sinclair smile. Sheridan's grunt was a constant across the years; it was a means of conveying just about anything and everything, but at the same time, it was always obvious what he meant by it. "So, the truth."

"The truth is – I won't be coming back from Babylon 4. I can't tell you more than that; I'm sorry. I don't want to change anything. It's very important that it all go the way it always has. You're just going to have to trust me."

John didn't know what to say. He studied Ambassador Sinclair for a long moment, recounting how this man had grown and changed since their first meeting. He caught the other man's eyes and wondered if he himself wasn't being examined in the same way.

"I meant what I said before. The station is in good hands."

"Even after that whole 'secession' thing?"

"_Especially_ after that." Sinclair grinned now, wide and sincere. "In fact, I have to admit, when I heard what happened I was sure glad it was you and not me. It had to be done, and you were the right person to do it. I wouldn't have been."

"You'd 've done fine."

"I'm not so sure. Within Earthforce, I didn't really have the clout. You did. There's a lot of work to be done yet, and you have what it takes to do it. Ironically, I didn't have the same power in your position. I got it when I put on that pin." He nodded toward the discarded robe.

"Your Rangers are… something else. You should be proud."

"I am." The ambassador's smile saddened. "Take care of them."

Sheridan nodded, finding that in spite of himself, he felt tears welling up in his eyes as it set in that this was a final goodbye. "I will."

"And take care of Delenn." They shared a knowing smile. "But I guess I don't have to tell you that."

"No." Sheridan blushed a little, turned his head to center his thoughts. When he looked up at his old friend again, a look of determination was set in his features. "How much do you know about what we're headed into?" He asked quietly.

"Everything." Sinclair offered no more, and Sheridan didn't ask. When it seemed the conversation would end with that, Sheridan straightened and began reaching for the gold bar in his pocket. He'd just grasped it when Sinclair spoke again. "John."

"Hmmm?"

"We have to work together on this. No heroes, no pulling rank. We back each other all the way, no questions asked, to the very end."

Sheridan nodded, feeling more confused than he'd ever felt in his life.

"Did you take Macky's Morals of Engagement?"

He had. MacDougan's class had been one of his favorites at the Academy. "Uh-huh."

"The person is expendable."

"The job is not," John finished. He paused to consider. "Who are we talking about here? You or me?"

Ambassador Sinclair raised his eyebrows. "Be careful." A long look passed between them as Sheridan tried to interpret the ambassador's tone, his facial expression, anything – but Sinclair might as well have been wearing a Vorlon encounter suit. Everything was vague; everything was blank.

"Of what?"

Another long pause. "_Isil'zha_," Sinclair said finally. "All of it." And then he picked up his robe and pulled it on, turning to exit the room and leaving Sheridan staring after him in befuddlement.

**

* * *

**

The trip home was a long and quiet one. Marcus mourned; Delenn prayed; Sheridan thought. Lennier, ever steady and dependable, navigated the relatively easy journey, directing the crew when necessary. Finally, about halfway home, John left the command deck in a sort of semi-daze, not really realizing until he came upon her that he'd been looking for Delenn. She was meditating over a single candle in the captain's quarters of the White Star. Wordlessly, he sank down on his knees beside her.

She didn't look up, but he knew she knew he was there, and that was the important part. Finally, after a long silence, she said, "Some of the Minbari believe he'll come back some day."

"I think that time has come and gone, Delenn." His voice was strained, but his words, painful as they were, were necessary.

"He was my friend, John."

"I know."

"I will miss him very much. But I think…" She opened her eyes now and turned her head to rest her eyes on John, and he smiled weakly at her. "His legacy is all around us. It survives within us – between us. It breathes when we breathe. It lives… as long as we live."

John nodded in response, but turned his gaze away from her to fixate on the candle flame. "Did I ever tell you I knew him before?"

"I do not think so."

He laughed lightly. "Well, then I didn't. If I had, you'd remember. And I don't know quite how to explain it, but… I feel like…"

"We will see him again." Not a question – this was the completion of his sentence. She just knew it.

"Uh-huh." Casually, John brought his arm around Delenn, and she leaned into his shoulder. A familiar voice echoed through his mind – _take care of Delenn, too_ – and he sighed and turned his face to look at her.

She smiled back. "Tell me about him, when you knew him before," she said quietly, and then returned her gaze to the flickering candle flame.

Sheridan nodded, smiled to himself, and kept his eyes focused on the single dancing light as well. "It was a long time ago," he began quietly. "Before the war, before… everything. We were at the Academy together for one year."

A small sigh escaped her, and John looked down to see her eyes were closed; perhaps she was picturing the two of them, young and uninhibited, and wondering how long it had taken for them to become friends. That almost made him laugh. And then she asked quietly, "Why only one year?"

"I was a few years ahead of him." John's tone slipped to somewhere far away, and his cheeks burned a bit at the memory of the person he had been back then; the things he had done, and in particular who he had done those things to. He wondered if Delenn might consider it a personal affront to the Minbari, given Sinclair's legacy; he sure hoped not. "I was just getting ready to graduate. He was a freshman cadet. He was…" A sigh, and a glance down at Delenn as he searched for the right words. "He was everything I wanted to see in myself, and I think I held that against him more than I should have."

"It took you longer to find yourself. There is no shame in that. We all discover who we are in our own time." Sheridan grunted quietly, offered an introspective nod, but said nothing. "How did you meet him?"

A long moment of silence passed. It had been a very long time since John had tried to build a relationship with anyone, and he had the strangest feeling that this relationship would be different from the one with Elizabeth or Anna; it was deeper on a plane he couldn't quite explain; it was stronger, somehow; more important. Truth was important in relationships, and it was common law among the Minbari, and so, wherever this led him, he knew it was important to tell the absolute truth right now. He allowed the silence to pass not to avoid the question, but to string together his story in the gentlest and least embarrassing way possible. "It was September of 2238," he said finally, and he felt her get comfortable against him; that made him smile, and he tightened his hold on her. "It was the end of lunch hour, and one or both of us was in a hurry, I guess… Delenn?" He looked down at her now.

"Hmm?"

"I think this story is less about Jeffrey Sinclair and more about me," he confessed.

He felt her shift, nod against his shoulder. "I know."


	4. Part IV: Kindred Spirits

See Part 1 for Disclaimer and Notes.

IV. **Kindred Spirits** _Beyond the Rim, January 2281_

At first, the light was so blindingly bright that John couldn't see anything at all. Then, slowly, his eyes adjusted. He blinked once, twice… and before his vision had entirely cleared, he heard a familiar voice.

"Hello, old friend."

It wasn't Lorien. Lorien didn't talk like that, and besides, this voice was too tinted with life and death and loss and destiny to belong to someone who'd lived millions of immortal years before journeying beyond the rim.

"Welcome." There was the voice again, and now the brightness of the light was becoming less unbearable; it didn't hurt. In fact, it was warm and comfortable, and Sheridan felt a smile stretch across his face as his eyes finally adjusted. The voice was coming from all around him; he let the warmth and the light surround him, engulf him, fill his mind and then – a fleeting flash of memory to what had to be his absolute favorite memory of Delenn, the feel of her in his arms, the warmth of her lips against his that very first time before there was any threat to his life or hers, before there was any deadline, when they had all the time in the world – and the echo of her voice… _I will see you again in a little while, in the place where no shadows fall._

"For her, it will be nearly a century." That was Lorien's voice, now. "But here, you will barely notice the passing of hours."

He still couldn't see anyone, but the first voice came again, and he tried to turn toward it; except, of course, it was everywhere, even coming from within John's own mind. "I want to know _everything_." He was confused. This wasn't at all what he had expected it would be like. But the confusion was replaced by more warmth, and he wrapped himself in it, let himself be consumed by that voice and a gentle wave of laughter. "This isn't like Heaven. We don't get to watch. You'll have to fill me in."

"Why am I here?" John asked, speaking for the first time. He was amazed; his own voice, too, seemed to be coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once.

"Because," Lorien responded. "You passed."

"You have always been here." He knew that voice, too. It brought a smile to his face.

"And—and Delenn?"

"Her journey is not yet complete."

"But she'll be here soon?"

"All in good time, my friend." That was the first voice again. Finally, objects and vague outlines of living beings began to take shape before John's eyes. A permanent smile fixated itself on his features.

It felt like a dream. Was it? John couldn't be sure. Now there were fluid shapes and familiar faces, but he felt like he was walking on a cloud, surrounded by eternal sunshine. His eyes fell to the nearest of those faces – Lorien. He was seated comfortably, as though he'd been sitting there for ages, as though the chair that held him had been crafted, molded to his very shape. He was smiling in that way that Lorien had always smiled – knowingly, with the wisdom of the ages in his eyes. Next to him, a second familiar face – and he allowed a chance at recognition to pass from his lips. "Jeffrey Sinclair."

"He has been known by many names. This was one," Lorien affirmed, and Sinclair's smile widened, absolute joy evident in his features. "He has been waiting patiently for you to join him here."

"I did what you said." John felt nervous and excited at the same time – but not afraid. He was too warm and comfortable to be afraid. "I took care of the Rangers and Delenn."

"I want all the details. Come," Valen said now. He gestured with a whispered wave of his hand to an empty chair on his left. "Take the place that has been prepared for you."

John took a tentative step forward. "I'm not sure I deserve it."

More gentle laughter from the The One Who Was. "I recall saying much the same thing. But we are welcome here; this place belongs to no one else. Here, we will gather until we are complete, and then a new journey will begin."

"I really don't understand."

"You are three, but you are one. You cannot be whole until you are all united in this place. For now, rest and reminisce." Lorien extended a hand, long fingers curling slightly. "It has been a long and difficult road. Your journey will begin anew soon enough."

"And where are we going?"

"You will know when she arrives."

John's steps became more confident now, and though he didn't entirely understand, he allowed disbelief and confusion to become emotions of his past. He shrugged them off with other feelings he didn't need anymore, feelings like regret and sadness and pain and hopelessness, and settled into the empty chair beside the man he had known as Jeffrey Sinclair.

"Start at the beginning," Valen said now. "Don't leave anything out."

And so John began to talk, tentatively at first, and then with more animation and excitement as he weaved the tale that needed to be told, that of two-thirds of The One, and the events of the last 20 years of their lives. And he reflected as the words tumbled out that he had spent spits and starts of his lifespan in the presence of each of his counterparts, but very little of it all at the same time. _Intentional?_ He wondered. _Perhaps._ He found that this made sense, and he found that he felt comfortable with it. And, finally, he realized that he was looking with great anticipation toward the ever-approaching hour when The One Who Is would come to take her place, her seat right next to his own, here where she had promised him they would meet again – in the place where no shadows fall.


End file.
